We're doing a unit on habitats, and Olivia Duran has decided that she is, in fact, a desert tortoise and will only communicate in what she imagines are tortoise sounds. Meanwhile, River Pham has glued his worksheet to the desk—not by accident, he assures me, but because "it wanted to stay there, Ms. Reyes." And little Leah Jackson is standing on her chair delivering an impassioned speech about why polar bears deserve their own country.
I love this part of my life. Right here, in this beautiful disaster of a classroom with alphabet letters peeling off the wall and the faint smell of Elmer's glue and someone's forgotten banana. These twenty-two tiny humans and their wacky little brains are my sweet spot.
"Listen, buddy," I tell River, crouching beside his desk. "The worksheet might want to stay, but it's got a date with my grading pile tonight. Let's see if we can unstick it without unsticking the desk, yeah?"
He grins at me, gap-toothed and shameless. "You're funny, Ms. Reyes."
"I know, kid. It's a gift and a curse."
The final bell rings at 3:00 and somehow I survive.
I'm erasing the whiteboard and picking glue sticks off the floor when Beth appears in my doorway.
"You look like you've been through a war," she says.
"I have. River declared a glue insurgency. Casualties were minimal, but the desk may never recover."
Beth laughs and drops into one of the miniature student chairs, her knees practically at her ears. She looks ridiculous and doesn't care. This is why I love her.
"So, update," she says, eyes bright. "I'm helping Fawn with engagement party planning, and Cam, I need you to understand—this woman has a vision board. For theappetizers."
"A vision board for appetizers?"
“Yep. And there are fabric swatches for the napkins."
I snort. "Jasper proposed and she's already got a mood board? That man has no idea what he's signed up for."
"He does, actually. He just looks at her like she’s an angel descended from Heaven and says 'whatever you want, sweetheart.' It's kinda disgusting. I love it."
"Firefighters and commitment." I shake my head, grinning. "Who knew they’d barrel straight into marriage as easily as they do burning buildings."
I give Beth a look. The one that saysspeaking of whichwithout actually saying it. I know Aiden’s going to propose to her soon. The man is obsessed with her and she's just as smitten with him.
She clears her throat. "Oh, hey,” she starts, and I can tell she’s officially changing the subject. “We're doing a thing at our apartment this Saturday. Super casual. Aiden's grilling. You should come."
Normally I'd say yes without thinking. Aiden and the other firefighters I’ve met are a hoot, and Aiden is a great cook. But this morning's hit is still sitting in my chest, and the thought of being around all those happy couples—Beth and Aiden, Perry and Raina, Jasper and Fawn, and even the Captain and Sloane—sounds…borderline tortuous.
"Ah, I can't. Simon's home this weekend." It's not technically a lie. He might be, depending on whatever Javi's "something came up with work" turns out to be.
Beth tilts her head. She just nods and says, "Next time, then."
After school Simon goes to his friend Niles’s house. His mom texted she’ll bring him home later.
The house is so quiet. I can hear the refrigerator humming, which is a sound that should be neutral, but tonight feels like loneliness with a motor.
I make my boxed mac and cheese, the kind with the powdered cheese packet that my mother would weep over if she knew. I'd apologize, but it's delicious and it takes eight minutes and I don't have the energy to pretend I'm someone who roasts vegetables mid-week.
I even eat standing at the counter because sitting at the table alone feels pointless. Then I grade papers for two hours, talking to myself the entire time ("Connor, buddy, a volcano is not a type of weather"), and eventually run a bath.
This is my one indulgence—the bathtub, a glass of wine, and whatever romance novel I'm currently devouring. Tonight, it's a second-chance romance with a brooding rancher who says things like "I never stopped thinking about you, darlin'" with a smoldering expression.
Normally, this is exactly what I need. Fictional men are reliable, the happy endings are guaranteed, and for a couple of hours I can live in a world where someone always says the right thing at the right time.
But tonight the words aren't sticking. I read the same page four times and I still couldn't tell you what the rancher said. Something about fences. Or feelings. Maybe both.
I set the book on the edge of the tub.
It's been yearssince anyone looked at me the way the men in these books look at the heroines. So long since anyone made me feel like more than the sum of my responsibilities—permission slips and lesson plans and bedtime negotiations with a kid who'd rather live at his dad's.
